


In Hindsight

by saintsrow2



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mike is a teeny bit of an emotional disaster but we do love him, Post-Movie, Roadtrip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsrow2/pseuds/saintsrow2
Summary: In hindsight, it was obviously a crush, but the fact that Mike could only look at it in hindsight, a long way away from the times when his pulse would quicken and his mouth would grow dry, made him able to dismiss it. Time and distance had a way of making everything look small and insignificant in comparison, and so did the burden Mike carried with him. It was a lot of responsibility, being the lighthouse keeper. It had fallen on him accidentally, but he didn’t mind; or rather, he did not blame anyone else for it. None of them had any choice over the fact they had left, after all, they had been children. It was their parents who had picked them up and carted them away from Derry in droves, leaving Mike the only one walking up the stairs to make sure the lamp stayed lit, for the day they all came home.Fluff fic from Mike's POV about being in love and going on a roadtrip.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 24
Kudos: 246





	In Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> In the book, Mike has a moment where he's so overwhelmed with nature and how much he loves his dad that he cries, and I really wanted to explore Mike as being that kind of sensitive, loving person. So here's a quick fic about crushes and not acknowledging your own feelings.

In hindsight, it was obviously a crush, but the fact that Mike could only look at it in hindsight, a long way away from the times when his pulse would quicken and his mouth would grow dry, made him able to dismiss it. Time and distance had a way of making everything look small and insignificant in comparison, and so did the burden Mike carried with him. It was a lot of responsibility, being the lighthouse keeper. It had fallen on him accidentally, but he didn’t mind; or rather, he did not blame anyone else for it. None of them had any choice over the fact they had left, after all, they had been children. It was their parents who had picked them up and carted them away from Derry in droves, leaving Mike the only one walking up the stairs to make sure the lamp stayed lit, for the day they all came home.

He was lonely. As a young man in college -- he thought of himself as an old man now, at the grand age of forty -- he had read  _ In Memoriam A.H.H.  _ in a literature class and though he knew it was a cliché, had been moved to tears by the lines ‘Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all’, scrubbing his face of tears at the back of the lecture theatre and hoping no one else noticed. The other students at the University of Maine already found him a little strange, overly sensitive and always lost in thought, prone to treating things with a level of gravity that was bewildering to most eighteen year olds. Mike didn’t particularly blame them for finding him odd; he’d been jumpy for a long time, darting from shadows, plagued by nightmares. He’d started college late, a twenty year old freshman only further distanced from his fellow students by his age. 

The problem was that the weight of his duty hadn’t really settled with him for a long time. As his friends had slowly moved away and he had grown to understand he would be the only one who would know the truth, the future when they would have to reunite felt dazzlingly  _ immediate _ . He wasn’t scared of how long it would be, because he didn’t really understand what it would mean to live through those twenty-seven years. For a little while, the only thing he could ever think about was that one day It would return. His life for that time was made up of the waiting; doing anything else felt pointless, because he knew It would come back and disrupt everything, so why bother? It had been a few years before he realised that he actually had a lot of time to fill, and his life was going to continue no matter what. Twenty-seven years. You couldn’t sit with your thumb up your ass, watching sewer grates for twenty-seven years. It was only when he really understood the time he had to live that he allowed himself to. 

Mike was the only one who remembered. It was tempting sometimes, horribly tempting, an impulse that was so powerful it was only his fear of fucking everything up that stopped him from contacting the others. He didn’t know what would happen if he moved too soon; if they found out, what if they couldn’t deal with the truth? It wasn’t what they had agreed on, so he let his duty go unquestioned. He clung to the memories he had, because he knew if he forgot them, no one could remind him for a long time. Not having anyone to correct details hurt; he ran over things again and again, because if he let them slip, they would be gone forever. 

The day in the summer he and Bill had ridden out to the fields behind his grandfather’s farm, where the wildflowers grew untamed and you could find rabbits, if you had the patience to look, was it Bill who had spotted one first, or him? Fourteen years old, lying on their bellies so still that they were barely breathing, watching a tiny animal move through the grass while Mike also watched the way light turned the ends of Bill’s hair gold, and felt a strange prickling over his skin when their eyes met. The flowers around them had been pink and white and gold; the air had smelled sweet with their scent. Mike had teared up from how beautiful it was, and Bill had not said a word, only smiled at him gently in a way that felt like a secret, just for the two of them. 

The day in the winter when the chain on Mike’s bike had snapped and he’d ridden on the back of Silver with Bill, that huge unwieldy machine that against all the odds Bill could make go faster than a bullet. He’d kept his arms around Bill’s waist, his head bent low to try and block out the cold wind burning his cheeks. Bill had stopped the bike after a while and pulled his scarf off, turning to wrap it around Mike’s neck, to protect his face. How he’d known Mike was cold, no one could say, but he’d done it all without ever asking. On that day, had the scarf been blue or green? Remember, Mike, because you’re the only one who can.

From a distance, Mike had kept track of everyone. He had to, but it was nice to know they were happy out there. They were all doing so well; big jobs, big success, their names huge and recognisable. None more so than Bill. The library had a permanent display, a friendly sign made out of cut-up card and printer paper that said LOCAL AUTHOR with several of Bill’s books out on display. The library had a few copies of each; they were popular. 

There had been a book signing in Portland, once. Or at least there had been one that Mike’d had the guts to go to. He’d driven all the way down, his copy of  _ The Black Rapids _ on the seat beside him. The whole time he drove he rehearsed what he would say if Bill didn’t recognise him, too scared to think of what he’d say if Bill did. He’d dressed in his nicest clothes almost subconsciously. Almost wanting to be noticed.

He’d made it as far as the bookstore the signing was in, in the end. He’d walked through the door, clutching the novel to his chest like a talisman, and spotted Bill sitting at the back behind a table, a big banner behind him advertising the name of his new novel. Mike had seen photographs of Bill, even a TV interview, but it was different seeing him in the flesh. He was handsome, way more handsome than he needed to be, streaks of grey in the soft brown hair that fell over his forehead. It had taken a second for Mike to realise he was holding his breath, watching his childhood crush sign a book and hand it back with a smile, a smile that Mike hadn’t seen in over twenty years and missed so painfully that his heart ached with it. 

“Are you in line?” A lady asked Mike, politely. 

“Oh,” he’d said. “No.”

He’d left then, knowing Bill hadn’t noticed him at all, and thought that was probably for the best even when he saw himself crying in the rearview mirror.

Mike had known Bill would return, though. Of them all, Bill would. Bill, who ran into danger heart-first and pulled them all together would be there when he was needed. Bill, the reckless hero would come home. 

And he did. And for the first time in twenty something years, Mike held Bill in his arms and felt Bill hold him. 

It was obviously a crush in hindsight; it was a childhood crush, the kind little kids get all the time, a mixture of hero-worship and the rush of first love that made it seem so huge and maddening. Mike was an adult now, able to separate himself from the butterflies in his stomach he used to get sometimes when he saw Bill smile just right, or push the hair out of his eyes, or look at Mike in that way that felt so special and so secret just for them. 

When he pressed his forehead to Bill’s and Bill held him close, Mike could have explained that away with just being in the moment. They had killed It, after all these years and everything they had lost, it made sense to cling to everyone you loved and hold them in grief and joy. It made sense. 

Just like how the feeling of Bill’s hands on him made sense, and how it made sense to say ‘I love you’ to Bill over the phone, his breath hitching in his throat a little bit as he said it, because the true weight of his words had not settled over him until he had said it. And it made sense when Bill said it back, without fear or hesitation, that he loved Mike too. It made sense that they loved each other. Yes, in hindsight, Mike could say he was just too emotional a person, too given to being overcome with how much he felt. He was the kind of guy who’d look out over a beautiful sunset and cry a little, the beauty of the day too much for him. He would weep when he was moved by books or poetry. He was a sensitive man, but it was knowing that he was sensitive that made him able to dismiss what he felt as too extreme. It wasn’t really that important, he was just overwrought because he was so sensitive… 

Mike left Derry for the last time, packed his car and drove away. He drove long and slow, because he wanted to see the things he had never been allowed to see. It was a long way to Florida, but that was just fine, because he could drive down through New York, and he could drive down through Washington, and he could see the East Coast he had lived so close to and so far from his whole life.

“Why Florida?” Bill asked, on the phone, during one of the phone calls they had two or three times a week. 

“It’s somewhere to go,” Mike said. 

“There’s a lot of places to go. You should see the Grand Canyon. You should see the Rockies.”

“I got time.”

“You’re the most patient man in the world.”

“I sure am, Bill. Love you.”

“I love you too, Mike.”

That was how they signed off every conversation; an affirmation, Mike told himself, not a confession. Every time he said it his heart would jump into his throat, but he’d always tell himself well, in hindsight, it wasn’t that big a deal. They were good friends; they loved each other.

He drove and he swam in the ocean in three different states, and he drove and met hundreds of people he’d never have met if he’d stayed home, and he drove and he passed through hundreds of places and lives for a moment. He left no mark but memory, a figure entering and leaving for only hours. Perhaps people would remember him for a long time, perhaps not, but Mike moved through the memory of hundreds as he travelled down the coast. He left a trail that said Mike Hanlon had lived a life.

When he got to Miami, he met Bill. He hadn’t been planning it; he just got a call one day, Bill’s voice soft and throaty on the line, like he’d just woken up.

“Where are you now?” 

“About to cross the border,” Mike said.

“I’ll be in Miami.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I love you.”

“You don’t gotta come all this way for me.”

“I’d go to hell and back for you. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do. I love you too.”

In Miami, Bill was waiting. Mike met him at a bar by the beach, where the sun was making the sands glow and the sea was crystal blue. They sat and watched the sun set over the tides and drank beer and talked;  _ do you remember _ …  _ Do you remember that time when… _

“Do you remember when we found that huge frog in the Barrens and you took it into the clubhouse…”

“Do you remember when Stan got his first car and we tried to all fit even though it was a two door…”

“Do you remember that summer, when we went looking for rabbits, and you saw one first…”

“No,” Mike said. “You saw it first.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bill said. “You have a really good memory for this stuff.”

“I was the only one who knew. I couldn’t forget, or it’d be gone.”

“We should make new memories,” Bill said. 

They drove from Miami to New Orleans. They went from New Orleans to Baton Rouge to Austin. They took turns driving, though Bill did more than Mike. Whoever wasn’t driving would lie on the backseat and read aloud, from whatever books Mike had crammed into the trunk, or whatever they could pick up from the second-hand bookstores they raided. Bill said he drove the most because he liked to hear Mike read aloud so much, which made Mike smile with private pleasure. They read the classics and they read trash, pulp that was so bad and so filthy that it made them both howl when they tried to do it seriously. When it was too dark to read they would listen to the radio, to old country and blues and rock, or talk, or just watch the night sky and see how different the stars looked on the other end of the country.

Sometimes they slept in hotels, sometimes they slept in the car. Sometimes they camped out under the night sky and woke up when the sun rose. Sometimes Bill would cushion his head on Mike’s chest and they’d sleep curled around each other, safe in the night. 

“Where are we going?” Mike asked one night, when they rolled into Austin. They’d been driving for six hours that day, were tired and hungry and cramped, looking for a place to eat and a place to sleep before they figured out what they wanted to see. 

“We’re here,” Bill said.

“No, but where are we  _ going _ ?” 

“Wherever we go, here we are.”

There was no destination in mind, no time limit on their journey. They were just driving. Bill laughed when Mike mentioned money; they could drive for a hundred years and not blow through all the gas money  _ he  _ had saved up.

“Worst comes to worst,” Bill said one morning, eating pancakes at a tiny diner in Austin that they were camped out in, picking over a map to decide where to go next. “We call Ben and Bev and beg them to give us money for plane tickets home.”

Mike laughed, though it occurred to him he had no home to go to. He still hadn’t decided where to go; he had no desire to go back to Derry, but the places he visited were only fleeting, a few days here and there, darting across the map like hummingbirds moving from flower to flower. 

They passed through New Mexico and went to Colorado; Bill’s hair was growing longer and Mike would tease him about it, running his fingers through it and calling him a hippy. Bill didn’t stop him, only ever looked at him with soft eyes and that smile that Mike thought was his, only his. Colorado was beautiful, and they spent days hiking through the forests, and sometimes it would all be so much Mike just had to sit and laugh or cry at how incredible the world was, and Bill would sit by him and rest his head on Mike’s shoulder. 

They skipped around Utah, only briefly passing through when Mike’s car broke down, and backtracked to Arizona, which was too hot, but they saw the Grand Canyon, and it left him speechless. Bill seemed absurdly proud, like he’d built the thing just for Mike to see, watching Mike’s face with rapt attention.

“You’re not even looking at the canyon!” Mike complained. “You’re just looking at me!”

“I like seeing you happy,” Bill said with a shrug. “And I said to come here so it’s like… I made you happy.”

“You do make me happy,” Mike said.

Bill grinned so much it was like his head was going to split in two and didn’t stop smiling all day. When Mike would look back on the day, he remembered how impossibly vast and beautiful and alien the canyon was, and he remembered how much Bill smiled. The sun beat down, and Bill Denborough beamed even brighter. 

When they were passing into California, their sights on San Francisco, Mike’s car gave up the ghost. It was an old thing, and maybe it hadn’t been meant to run thousands and thousands of miles like this. The mechanic told Mike the price of repairing it would cost more than the car itself, and it looked like everything was fucked until Bill said they were only a couple of hours out from Los Angeles; they could just stop by his house. It hadn’t even occurred to Mike that Bill lived in LA; they had been nomads for so long that he’d forgotten there was a place Bill was expected to  _ be _ .

The house, when they got there, was cold. Someone, a maid or assistant presumably, had been keeping it tidy enough, but it had been unoccupied for months. There were voids in the house too, places where things were just  _ missing _ . A shadow where a photo had been, impressions on the carpet where furniture was gone. Closets far too vast for the half-serving of clothes that remained. Mike knew Bill’s wife -- ex-wife -- from name only. She was a ghost in the house. In hindsight, it was obvious why Bill had come away so quickly. Why he was happy to run around the country for weeks. He was running away. Well, that was fine. If Mike could give him some good times during a difficult time in his life, that was ok. Mike wandered around the huge house, explored the library in Bill’s office, but found the building lonely. It felt too proper, too neat and nice to be his Bill. 

“What do you think?” Bill asked him, appearing in the doorway to his office.

“It’s… Nice,” Mike said, politely.

Bill laughed. “Yeah, it’s… The kind of house you buy when you’re rich, I guess. Feels like when you’re rich it’s a race to own as much stuff as you can and hide it as much as possible.”

“Oh, tell me about your problems.”

“Believe me, I think the whole thing is as stupid as you do.”

“It feels… It’s a lonely house,” Mike said.

Bill stared at him for a moment, frowning a little.

“Yeah,” he said, eventually. “Yeah, it is. I think I was always lonely here. I didn’t know who I was missing at the time, but…”

He walked into the office and sat on the desk, next to where Mike was standing, holding Mike’s wrist.

“We all missed each other without even knowing there was something to miss. How did you make it… That whole time?”

“Knowing you’d come back one day helped,” Mike said. “But it felt… Too important for me to worry about how I felt. I wasn’t the important part.”

“Are you kidding?” Bill said. “Our lucky number seven… We’d all have been lost without you.  _ I’d  _ have been lost without you.”

“Oh, come on. You were always the leader.”

“Mike.”

Bills hand slipped from his wrist to his hand, tugging him insistently closer. He was a good deal shorter than Mike, even sitting up on the desk, and had to tip his head back to look at Mike’s face. Mike stood in front of him, fingers interlaced, so close he could see where there was still a touch of red in Bill’s graying hair, and just how blue his eyes were. 

“None of us would have made it without you.  _ I  _ wouldn’t have made it without you. You are the  _ most  _ important part.”

Mike smiled and looked away, the words making a lump form in his throat, but Bill reached up and cupped his cheek. 

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Mike said. “You know I’m too sensitive.”

“No, you’re not. You just see how beautiful things are.”

“You help me see beautiful things.”

“Then will you believe me when I say that you’re beautiful?”

Mike laughed once, almost like no, he couldn’t believe it, watching Bill’s face intently to see if it was a joke. If Bill was suddenly going to break and reveal that it was a bit. 

“What are you saying?” Mike said.

“You haven’t noticed?” Bill said. “This whole time? When I went out to Florida I told you, I was going because I love you.”

“I thought…” Mike laughed, at himself. “I thought you just… Were saying that.”

“Mike… Listen to me. I love you.”

“You know, in hindsight, that’s obvious.”

Bill reached up and Mike leaned in and they kissed, so soft and so sweet that it made Mike think of a field of wildflowers, the air filled with the sight and scent of them, pink and gold and beautiful. Whenever they kissed he would think about the sun spilling through leaves overhead, the warmth and colour of summer thrown over them, and whenever they kissed he would think about how lucky he was. 

They didn’t stay in LA long; they packed up Bill’s car to drive to San Francisco, circling places on the map along the west coast that they would like to go. The map was so heavy with their additions now it would be impossible for anyone else to read, but no one else needed to.  _ They  _ understood it. They wondered about where they could go next.

“Maybe Mexico,” Mike said. “Or Europe.”

“We can go anywhere you want,” Bill said. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Mike kicked back in the passenger seat as they drove by the ocean, the sun flickering off the blue water. There was a lighthouse on the rocks, lone and white and isolated amongst the crashing waves, and Mike smiled to himself as Bill cranked up the radio. He didn’t need to worry about keeping the light lit to call anyone home; with Bill’s hand on his knee as they drove out of LA, he knew he already was. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr [@saints-row-2](http://saints-row-2) and [twitter!](https://twitter.com/rorschachisgay)
> 
> check out my other IT fics too!
> 
> [portrait of two boys in free fall, artist unknown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338995/chapters/50823706)
> 
> [Not Quite Young](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064337)


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